


Shaking a Check (I)

by MumbleBee19



Series: Shaking a Check [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9884510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MumbleBee19/pseuds/MumbleBee19
Summary: Jack hurts someone badly in an NHL game – totally an accident, but he feels TERRIBLE and it incites a huge panic spiral. Bitty tries to help, but knows that Jack really needs to talk to his dad. Good-guy Marty makes an appearance. Jack's poor brain does him no favours. Father-to-son and hockey-player-to-hockey-player talks ensue.Story from Jack's perspective.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There is a reference to Jack's overdose in this story, and his concern about having pills around while he's in crisis. If you are triggered or upset by such references, please don't read. There's also a lot of negative self talk via Jack, so potentially a warning there as well. Lastly, there are two major injuries discussed, although not explicitly. I never know what to write here, but please let me know if I'm missing something!! Also sorry about all the terrible French! I mostly used Ngozi's << text>> convention to indicate French dialogue, but some actual phrases snuck in as well. These characters don't belong to me, but I sure do love them. Thanks for reading!

As soon as he made it off the ice and into the tunnel, Jack started puking. He knew that the crowd must still be roaring, but his ears were filled with static and his vision had taken on a tinny sheen, hands clammy and shaking so hard he’d lost his stick somewhere.

Jack jerked in surprise when a heavy glove clapped him on the shoulder. Marty’s face swam into view, eyes dark with concern. His mouth was moving, but Jack still couldn’t hear anything. Marty led/half-carried Jack to the dressing room, efficiently and gently removing his skates and pads as if Jack were a child.

Jack managed to pull himself together enough to stagger to the shower unassisted, and wondered if he could just drown himself under the hot water. _Crisse_ , anything to stop thinking. Stop hearing that sound. To stop seeing it every time he closed his eyes. Eriksson was a good guy – they’d played against each other in the Q, and Jack had never really talked to him, but he seemed solid. And now he was on a stretcher. On a backboard. In a neck brace. Unconscious. Because of Jack.

Tears rolled down his face, hidden by the shower spray, but hotter somehow. Jack rested his forehead against the cool tile and tried to breathe. Eventually he heard his name being called, followed by a stream of hesitant French. Jack turned off the shower, snagged the towel Marty threw at him out of the air, and slowly started to dry off.

Press. God. He had to talk to the press. He was the captain, and it was his fault, and he had to say something. Apologize somehow. He barely made it to the garbage can before he threw up again, sides heaving, hands gripping the plastic edges until his knuckles turned white and spots swam behind his eyelids.

“Jack…” it was Marty again.

“C’mon kiddo, let’s get you dressed. I’ll drive you home.”

Jack blinked blearily at him for a heartbeat or two. “But,” his voice was raw and reedy, “… press. I have to…”

“Guy has it taken care of. Nobody expects you to talk about it yet, bud.”

Jack felt relief wash over him, followed immediately by another wave of guilt. He had maybe just ruined a man’s career. Crushed his dreams. That was if Eriksson wasn’t paralyzed or worse. Oh God. _Bon Dieu_ , what kind of man was he if he couldn’t even apologize? He wasn’t the one who was hurt. He was to blame, he had to…

<<Zimmermann, I can see you thinking yourself into a major fucking meltdown. You need to stop, right now. Seriously.>> Marty’s voice was gruff, firm, no-nonsense, and Jack’s wheeling mind clung to it.

<<I know that I can tell you – hell, everyone will tell you – that this wasn’t your fault. It was fucking terrible luck. But you didn’t do this TO him. It just happened around you. I know you won’t believe me yet, but it’s the truth. Eric has been texting me non-stop. So has your dad. Let me take you home now, kiddo. Your family needs to see you, talk to you.>>

Ok. Jack could do it, for someone else he could do it. Bitty didn’t need to suffer because of him, too. His parents didn’t need to agonize on the other end of the phone. Again. Because of him.

Jack mechanically dressed while Marty dealt with his equipment. Packed his bag. Grabbed his hat and tugged it down over Jack’s damp hair. Jack realized belatedly that the rest of the team must have already left. How long was he in the shower? God.

<<Eric is going to meet us at your place, he left Samwell right after…>> Marty cleared his throat, continued in English, as if that made it less real somehow. “Right after the accident. He should be there by now. Don’t worry about your car, ok?”

Jack nodded, pulled the brim of his cap lower over his face, and followed Marty down to the parking garage. Surprisingly no one was really hanging around. It felt too quiet. Too still. Like a funeral. Jack’s breath hitched again, and he gripped the shoulder strap of his bag until the stiff fibres cut grooves into his palms. The slight pain grounded him a little, and they climbed into Marty’s SUV.

After a drive that passed Jack by in a blur of lights and vague motion sickness, they finally arrived at his building. Marty got out – surprising Jack a little. His face must have shown it, because Marty said simply “I need to make sure you get in ok.”

Jack nodded, unlocked the front door, keyed in the elevator code, and held the door back so Marty could shoulder Jack’s hockey bag into the car with them. The floors ticked by and Jack closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall, and let himself float mindlessly on the haze of shock and fatigue. The elevator doors slid open, and the two men walked towards Jack’s unit wordlessly.

Before he could get his key in the lock, the door flung inward to reveal a wide-eyed, pale Eric Bittle. He was maybe the best thing Jack had ever seen.

Jack felt like he was frozen in the doorway until Marty gave him a gentle shove, pushed past to drop the gear in the foyer, and say some soft words to Bitty. He clapped Jack on the shoulder, forcing Jack to meet his level gaze. <<Try and get some rest, kiddo. This kind of thing … you just need to take it a day at a time. Call me if you need anything.>>

Jack nodded, managed to push a strained “ _M-merci”_ through his constricted throat, and Marty nodded back and closed the door behind him.

Instantly, Bitty was in his arms, just holding Jack as he started to tremble, his vision started to grey. Jack’s knees gave out, and he slid to the floor, pulling Bits down with him. Eric straddled his lap, tucked Jack’s head between his shoulder and neck, and stroked his hair while Jack cried silently. Desperately. Bitty was murmuring a steady string of soft words, interspersed with gentle kisses wherever he could reach. And he held on. Held Jack together when he otherwise would have shaken apart.

Jack didn’t know how long they sat on the cold floor. Time was a strange thing – how it expanded and compressed when terrible or wonderful things happened. He was exhausted. Thirsty. Jelly-limbed and fragile. Eric pulled back, gently running his thumbs under Jack’s eyes, using his soft flannel sleeve to wipe his cheeks and throat. He laid a delicate kiss – like a butterfly wing – across Jack’s lips, and a firmer one on his forehead.

Bitty clambered up, wincing a little at stiff joints, and helped hoist Jack to his feet. He pushed and prodded Jack to the bedroom, undressing him, propping him up on some pillows, and pulling the duvet up and over his exhausted body. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, opening them when Eric returned with a glass of water and some extra-strength ibuprofen. Jack swallowed the pills and half the water in one go, sipping at the rest until the glass was empty. Eric was perched on the side of the bed, one hand on the blanket covering Jack’s thigh.

“Sweetheart,” Eric began a little hesitantly.

His warm brown eyes seemed impossibly large. Limpid pools of concern and love. Jack closed his own, unable to stand any sympathy. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve anything good, not anymore. Not after what he’d done.

“Jack,” Eric’s tone was firmer now. Jack kept his eyes closed. 

“Sweet boy, listen to me. George called while you were on your way home. Eriksson’s awake.”

Jack’s eyes flew open. His heart felt like it stuttered to a stop before beating frantically to try and catch up.

“He has a fractured vertebra, baby, C4. And a concussion, obviously, but no bleeding or swelling on the brain. When he came to, there were no signs of paralysis either from the neck injury. He’s out for the season, but they haven’t ruled out him playing again.”

Jack felt a little flicker of hope kindle in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t ruined everything. Again. 

“Honey, he asked his management to pass a message along to you.”

Here it came. The fully justified anger. Blame. Probably a lawsuit. Probably... 

Bitty’s voice interrupted his frantic thoughts.

“He wanted you to know that it wasn’t your fault, he doesn’t blame you Jack. Nobody does. He said it could have happened to anyone, and that he’ll see you next season in the playoffs.” Jack stared blankly at Eric. That. That didn’t make any. No, that couldn’t be right. Eric was just saying that to make him –

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, I can see you thinking awful things. I wouldn’t lie to you about this. I wouldn’t lie to you, period. Not ever. Do you trust me?”

Jack’s head was nodding before his brain even processed the question. He did trust Bitty. Of course he did.

“Your mom and dad are real worried about you, sweetpea. I can call them for you, but I’m sure they’d like to hear your voice if you can manage it.” 

Jack cleared his throat experimentally. He still couldn’t think through everything that had happened, not really. But he should talk to his parents. He should let them know they didn’t have to worry, he … well. He wasn’t alone, at least. There wasn’t any booze in the house. And his pills…

Jack leaned over to the bedside table and pulled out his prescription bottle. Bitty’s eyes widened a little, what little colour he had regained draining out of his cheeks.

“I’m. I’m not feeling like. Like I can trust myself right now.” Eric’s eyes widened a little more. Jack could see the whites around his irises. He was scaring Bitty, he knew that, but he couldn’t not scare him … not if the alternative was. Well. Worse. 

Bits held out his hand – steady, for all that his pulse was hammering at his throat – and Jack put the bottle in his palm.

“Well.” Eric swallowed, accent suddenly thicker, drawl more pronounced. “Well, I’ll just hold onto these for you until you do.” Jack nodded, relieved that Eric wasn’t completely freaking out.

“Is your phone in your bag? I’ll go grab it for you, if you’re up for calling your parents.”

Jack nodded an affirmative, “Yeah Bits, it should be in the left side-pocket.” Bittle nodded, walking out to retrieve the phone, pill bottle rattling gently in his hand. When he came back, he had the phone, but the pills were gone. Jack breathed out a relieved sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. One less thing to worry about.

Bitty handed him the phone and tilted his head towards the door. “I’ll just be making something to eat, honey. Take your time, I won’t interrupt.”

Jack felt tears well up unexpectedly. He didn’t deserve someone like Eric. Someone so caring and thoughtful and, well. _Good_. Eric smiled softly at him, and closed the door silently, turning the knob so that the latch didn’t even click.

Jack stared down at the screen, taking a deep breath, and navigating past the dozens of notifications and missed calls until he pulled up his parent’s contact. He rolled his shoulders, let out a strong huff of air, and steeled himself for the call. He had to sound ok. That was his job. Just sound ok for long enough that they wouldn’t worry, and then get the hell off the phone before the façade cracked. He could do this. 

”Jack! Hold on love, I’ll get your dad on the other phone.” Jack’s jaw unclenched a little at the sound of his mother’s voice hollering for his dad. A second later, the other phone clicked on and Jack heard his dad, a little out of breath, join the call.

<<Hi, son>>

<<Papa>> and that was all it took. Jack was such a fucking failure, he couldn’t even keep it together for one fucking sentence. Tears started pouring down his cheeks, and he tried to hold back the strangled whimper that escaped anyways.

“Oh baby. Jack, honey. It’s not your fault.”

<<Alicia, could you let Jack and me talk for a minute? Alone. I just. Just for a minute.>>

Jack heard his mom sniff a little, and then she was saying <<Of course Bob. I love you, Jack,>> before hanging up.

<<Papa, everyone keeps saying that it’s not my fault, but I should have known how close I was to the boards. I should have known if I bent over to shake the check he’d go flying head first into them. I. Papa, I can’t stop hearing the sound when his helmet hit the glass. I can’t stop seeing his body just. Just fall, limp. He looked like a puppet with its strings cut. It’s just a game. It’s just a fucking game, and because I wanted to win, this guy broke his FUCKING NECK. Why am I doing this? What if I hurt someone else?>>

The words poured out of Jack in a barely coherent rush. But he could say these things to his dad. Bad Bob would understand, the hockey player would understand, even if the father wanted to protect his boy from the pain and the guilt.

“ _Mon fils. Jacques.”_ Bob’s voice was heavy with emotion.

<<I could tell you that it’s not your fault. Jonas was reckless, coming at you at that speed next to the boards. And you didn’t do anything wrong, son, trying to avoid a check that would have pushed YOU into those boards. But I understand what you’re feeling. I wish I could change those feelings, but I’ve been there, and,>> Bob had to pause to clear his throat.

<<Do you remember the season my team lost in the finals? I think you were about eight.>>

“ _Ouais Papa, je me souviens._ You lost to Colorado at home in six.”

Bob huffed a little laugh. <<That’s the one. Do you remember when I checked Liam McCallus in the fourth game of that series, and he was out for the rest of it?>>

Jack frowned, brow wrinkling. “No not really, Papa. Was it… was it a clean hit?”

<<Yeah it was clean. I knew though, going at him, that he hadn’t seen me. His head was down – he was still a young player – and I KNEW that I was going to level him. But. It was the Stanley Cup finals, and we were down a goal and a game, and. Well. I followed through on the check. God, I hit him so hard, I can still hear the breath get knocked out of him, feel his body just give way.>>

Jack was silent, hanging on his dad’s words.

Bob swallowed audibly and cleared his throat. <<Turns out, the kid never played again. He. Well. The check, it basically gave him third degree whiplash. His brain got rattled around badly enough that he never got over the post-concussion symptoms, and. And that was that.>>

Jack closed his eyes, wishing he could see his dad. Hug him.

<<It’s part of the game Jack. We all take a … well a pretty fucking huge risk every time we get on the ice. And we never think that it’ll happen to us, or that we’ll be the ones to cause a guy to lose his career. But, the older you get, and the more you play, the more you realize that luck is a fickle sonofabitch. And there really aren’t any guarantees, outside the fact that you _are_ going to get hurt at some point. And you _are_ going to hurt someone else. >>

Bob paused again, gathering his thoughts. <<I wish it wasn’t the case, son. But I don’t ever want you to take the game lightly. We love it, but it can exact a heavy toll on the body, and spirit. You’ll need to take a little time. Talk to George, talk to your team, get back on the ice gradually and see how you feel. Because when something like this happens, it shakes a man. Well, it shakes the _good_ ones. >>

Jack breathed in and out slowly. Relief trickling through his veins like an anesthetic.

<<Thank you, Papa. I. Needed to hear the … well the reality I guess. Even if I’m not to _blame_ , I still feel responsible. And I need to come to terms with that. And figure out if I can … justify to myself the risk you were talking about. Whether or not my love for the game outweighs the chance that this could happen again.>>

A thought flashed across Jack’s mind. <<Did you ever contact McCallus? After the hit. And after you knew he wasn’t going to play again?>>

Bob sighed. <<Yes. I couldn’t. Well I couldn’t just move ahead with my career and my ridiculous salary, knowing I’d fucked that kid over for probably the rest of his life. Your mother and I, well. We decided to … help his family out. Quietly. Financially. And. We started a scholarship for him, and kept it ongoing in his name. For kids who are injured in accidents and need financial aid to go to college.>>

Jack smiled a little. His parents were good, too. Like Bitty. And he could still do something right.  Something to try and make the situation a little better if it didn’t get better on its own.

<<I’m glad, Papa. If. If things don’t go well with Eriksson’s recovery, I might need your help to … set something up. To make amends in my own way.>>

<<Of course Jack. We’ll help however we can. Get Eric to bake him a bunch of pie. That’s good therapy, food baked with love.>>

Jack snorted out a laugh. “I will. Pies for life might be a condition of my penance.”

Bob smiled, voice soft. “Get some rest son. It’s late and you must be bagged.”

“I will Papa. Thank you again, for. Well, for telling me. It helped to hear it. Tell mom I’ll talk to her tomorrow, ok?”

“ _Ouais Jacques. Je t’aime.”_

_“Je t’aime aussi, Papa._ Goodnight.”

 

Jack ended the call and let himself melt into the pillows. He closed his eyes, and for the first time since the check, breathed a little easier. He sat up and swung his legs out from under the covers, reaching for a t-shirt to throw on as he walked to the door. Bittle was in the kitchen, humming along quietly to the music playing from his phone. Jack paused for a second, just to drink in the sight of Eric’s long, golden legs. The strength of his back and shoulders, and the delicate curve of his skull. Walking as quietly as he could, Jack wrapped his arms around Bitty’s chest, drawing a surprised yelp out of him, followed quickly by a laugh. Jack nuzzled into the crook of Eric’s neck, breathing in the scent of him. Of home.

“It’s going to be ok. I’m going to be ok, and hopefully Eriksson will be too.”

“I know honey. I know.”

 


End file.
